


Under the Weather

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (A/B/O) [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: I’m out, of medication. And I haven’t the coin for another vial at the moment, so I’ll wait this heat out - and it’s almost over, thank the gods - save up, and hopefully be able to purchase another before the next heat.Under the WeatherTo feel a little sick.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher (A/B/O) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598041
Comments: 66
Kudos: 958





	1. Chapter 1

Another successful contract finished, and Geralt headed to Novigrad. It wasn’t a city he frequented often, but there were a great many things to look forward to there: an inn with a proper bed, a tailor for a new set of clothing, and (more likely than not) Dandelion.

His friend enjoyed the city, and if he wasn’t in Oxenfurt, stirring up trouble at his alma mater, he was most likely in Novigrad (when he wasn’t with the Witcher, that was). They’d not seen each other since Geralt had headed north the previous fall, and after spending the winter in Kaer Morhen he’d returned south and had yet to stumble across Dandelion.

Since fate was misbehaving, he’d have to give it a bit of a nudge.

Once in the city, he easily found the inn where the bard was staying, although he was surprised to be told that he hadn’t been seen in several days. _No matter_ , thought the Witcher, _he’s most likely in a creative funk, only allowing prostitutes in to see him_. He would let Geralt in though, he always did, and the Witcher could regale him with stories of monsters, and Dandelion will fill him in on whatever absurd gossip was going around at the time. The poet would also know a tailor where he could get a new jacket, and then, perhaps, they’d head out on the Path together.

A coin tossed at the innkeeper got him the location of Dandelion’s room, and an order to tell his friend that he only had a day left on the coin he’d paid so far. Geralt nodded, handed over another day’s rent, and walked upstairs.

“Dandelion!” Geralt knew as soon as he opened the door and saw the poet that something was wrong. He was horribly silent, his knees drawn into his chest, just sitting alone and naked on the bed.

The room reeked of perfumed oils and the numerous scented candles that surrounded him. If not for his Witcher senses, Geralt might never have noticed the other, underlying scent: heat.

“Oh? Oh, hello there Geralt. How are you?” Upon closer inspection, Dandelion was pale, underweight, and seemingly dehydrated. All the typical signs of a neglected omega (ideally, an alpha would have made him eat and drink, but the poet was clearly alone).

“I’m well, Dandelion,” he said, stopping several feet short of the bed. “How are you?”

The poet huffed. “Fine.”

“Do you want me to leave or-”

“No.” Dandelion waved to a chair by the bed. “Please,” he said. “Be my guest.”

Geralt sat. He’d not seen Dandelion in heat since the time in the woods, and while he was more than able to control his alpha urges, what he found more difficult to control, was the growing concern and pity.

“I- I tried a new medication.” The poet winced and scratched the back of his head. “It doesn’t seem to be working.”

Geralt slowly reached forward, picking up the glass vial beside the bed. “This?” he asked.

Dandelion nodded. Geralt removed the stopper, sniffing the contents. “Poppy.”

“Yes,” Dandelion replied irritably. “Something I noticed far too late.”

“Why would they think poppy would help?”

“I don’t think they did.” Dandelion scowled. “I’ve had a long while to sit here and think, and I’ve decided that it was no accident.”

“They’re tricking omegas into revealing themselves?” Geralt guessed.

“Yes. But rather than fall victim, I holed myself up here. Thankfully I had enough coin to pay for the room for a week in advance.”

Geralt didn’t want to think about what would have happened if Dandelion’s week had run out and he’d still be there alone. “You could have gone to a whore house-”

“And been _recognized_?” Dandelion scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. It would be the end of my career.”

“Where is your medication?”

“I’m out,” Dandelion snapped. “And I haven’t the coin for another vial at the moment, so I’ll wait this heat out - and it’s almost over, thank the gods - save up, and hopefully be able to purchase another before the next heat.”

Geralt was already standing. “Where can I get it?”

“Geralt I- No! No, you’re not buying it for me!” The poet seemed startled by the offer, blinking up at him.

“Why not?”

“Because, Geralt, it’s _expensive_.”

“I have the coin.” He’d been planning to spend it on a new jacket, perhaps some new tack for Roach, but Dandelion’s needs seemed far greater.

“No-“

“Dandelion,” he said firmly. “I insist.” The look he gave him must have convinced the poet that if he didn’t tell Geralt where to go, he’d find it himself and cause a ruckus in the meantime (either that or it was a side effect of the heat, where he couldn’t refuse an alpha. Geralt hoped that wasn’t it).

“Alright,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “But you’ll have to let me pay you back-”

“You’ve never let me pay you back when I’ve been skint.” Geralt shook his head. “We’ve always helped one another when needed, Dandelion, I don’t mind.” Personally, Geralt didn’t see why Dandelion’s medication ought to be different, but then again, it was something the poet had always been strange about.

Dandelion finally gave in, giving Geralt instructions on how to get to the herbalist, and exactly what to look for. “If you’d like, I’ll send the innkeeper with water for a bath.” When Dandelion opened his mouth to protest, Geralt quickly said, “I barely smelled you, so long as you’re dressed, I doubt they’ll notice.”

“I- well, I must confess it sounds rather nice.”

Geralt nodded, tossed him a short knife from his belt, and said, “Stab first, ask questions later,” as he walked out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poppy is what opium comes from.


	2. Chapter 2

He found the herbalist easily enough, Dandelion’s instructions were surprisingly clear. What wasn’t as easy, was convincing her to admit she made the suppressant.

It seemed she was afraid of getting the anti-omega-rights crowds (which Geralt hadn’t even realized was a thing, before meeting Dandelion) riled up. “You’re not an omega sir, if you don’t mind my saying, so I don’t see why-”

“It’s for my friend,” he hissed, leaning forward and gripping the counter. “He took something else, something he was told would help him, but instead was poppy-”

She sighed. “I’ve told them not to try that, but the sellers-” the herbalist shook her head. “They make a fine case for it as being improved over the old ways, but it won’t work.”

“So you do make the suppressant?” Geralt asked with a slight grin.

The herbalist folded her arms over her chest. “I recognize you now,White Wolf, so I can imagine who sent you.”

“So you’ll sell it to me?”

She nodded, still seeming hesitant. “I will.”

Dandelion had been correct in saying that the medication would cost a pretty penny, but Geralt tucked it into his bag. It would be well worth it if his friend could once again live his life with a small sense of normality.

With that, he slipped from the Herbalist and returned to the inn. 

* * *

Dandelion was soaking in the tub when he returned, although the knife he’d left was sitting well within the poet’s reach.

“Very loyal woman, the herbalist,” Geralt said, setting the medication down on the table.

“A good woman,” Dandelion agreed. “She’s an omega too, you know? Of course, you shouldn’t know that, so don’t-”

“I won’t tell.”

Geralt crouched by the tub, then, when Dandelion didn’t move away, he reached out to rub the poet’s shoulders. The troubadour practically melted into his hands, but there was nothing sexual to it, only a need for comfort.

“It seems the heat is over,” Geralt guessed.

“Yes,” Dandelion said sleepily. “I find the aftermath - a state of need for comfort and affection - far less annoying.”

“You’re always clingy, Dandelion.”

“Ha!” laughed the poet, but he didn’t argue. He whined as the Witcher suddenly stopped, standing and walking away. “Geralt!” he pleaded. “Come back.”

The Witcher poured a glass of water into the pitcher, returning to Dandelion’s side to offer him a sip. “Drink this,” he said. Dandelion readily agreed, tilting his head back and letting Geralt pour it into his mouth. After the poet had drunk most of the glass, he set it aside, resuming rubbing his shoulders.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you Geralt,” he said softly. Then he scoffed. “Actually, I know exactly where I’d be-”

“Dandelion-”

“In a brothel, somewhere, drugged up with birth control, or in a rich alpha’s manor-”

“I won’t let that happen.”

Dandelion sneered. “I’m pitiful,” he said bitterly. “Needing an alpha to protect me, begging to touched, even after the damn heat.”

Geralt knew better than to take Dandelion’s words personally. After his last heat - which Geralt had been forced to fuck him out of - he’d spent several days alternating between clinging to the Witcher, then snapping at him, then sobbing apologies for being so rude.

“Your hormones are still out of balance,” Geralt said quietly. “And you’ve had a rough week, all by yourself. That’s not weak, Dandelion. Weak would have been dragging yourself to the lobby and begging to be fucked.”

The poet was quiet, then murmured, “I thought about it.” He tilted his head back over the edge of the tub, staring at Geralt sadly. “I made it all the way to the door before I stopped myself.”

“Is that when you tied yourself down?” He hadn’t noticed the rope burns on Dandelion’s wrists until the poet had rested his hands on the edge of the tub. Slowly he reached out, pulling Dandelion’s hand closer so he could inspect them. “I’ll get an ointment,” he said softly. It would have to wait until Dandelion was out of the water, however.

“That is when I tied myself down,” the troubadour said softly. “I couldn’t figure out the knots while I was out of it, I’d only just untied myself when you arrived.”

He pulled over a stool, sitting on it and making himself comfortable, running his fingers through the troubadour’s curls. “I am very close to crawling out of the tub and into your lap, just so you know.”

“Shhh, stay in the water a bit longer,” Geralt said, letting a soft growl creep into his voice. As he’d anticipated, Dandelion sunk into the water obediently. He poured another glass of water, making Dandelion drink it before picking up a cloth and a bar of soap.

“May I?”

“Hmmm.” He cleaned Dandelion carefully, letting the bard relax under his touch. After he’d soaped most of them, he fetched a razor and cut away the stubble that had grown up on Dandelion’s face while he’d been out of it.

“The water’s getting cold,” the poet mumbled.

Geralt helped him to stand, wrapping him in a towel to dry him off. It would have been made much easier if not for the fact that Dandelion kept trying to cuddle into him. He gave up on getting the poet dressed, instead lifting him up and dropping him onto the bed once he was dry.

“Geralt!”

“In a moment, Dandelion.” It didn’t feel right to curl up against him while he was still dirty from the road, so Geralt stripped and washed as quickly as he could, using a rag rather than stepping into the tub. Then he shrugged into a fresh shirt and pants from his bag - the only spare set he owned - and turned back to his friend.

Dandelion looked rather irritated. “Geralt,” he said, making the name at least two syllables longer than it ought to have been. “Come here.”

As soon as he sat on the bed, Dandelion was in his lap, curling into him, nuzzling his face into the Witcher’s neck. He swung his feet into the bed, wrapping them both in a blanket so the poet wouldn’t get cold.

“Tell me about your latest monsters,” Dandelion pleaded with a yawn.

“You won’t remember them in the morning,” Geralt pointed out.

“Excellent, I’ll get to hear them twice.” His stomach rumbled as he spoke, and Geralt patted his shoulder.

“Let me buy supper.” He had dried food in his bag, rations for the road, but couldn’t bring himself to give that to Dandelion. His friend deserved better after what he’d been through.

“Don’t leave me,” Dandelion whined into his ear.

Geralt wrapped him in the blanket. “Five minutes,” he promised. “Drink a glass of water while I’m gone.”

It ended up taking more than five minutes, and by the time he returned Dandelion was sitting on the bed, the glass of water beside him, shivering despite the blankets Geralt had wrapped him in. “You were meant to drink that,” Geralt chided, setting the tray of food beside him.

“I’m sorry Geralt, I- please, forgive me-” Dandelion lunged forward, his eyes wide with fright, then he seemed to catch himself, shaking his head and grumbling, “I’ll drink it.”

“I even brought your favorite wine,” Geralt said, giving him a reassuring pat on the back. “But you need to eat first.”

“You could feed me,” offered the poet.

Geralt chuckled. “Your hormones are fuzzing your head again, my dear poet.”

“No, they’re not,” Dandelion leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes. “Geralt, I- I’m tired. I’ve barely slept in a week and-”

Geralt sat on the bed, letting Dandelion curl up against him, and - although it went against every instinct he had - slowly fed the bard. It wasn’t something he’d ever expected himself to be doing, far too docile, too familiar. But it was Dandelion, he reminded himself, brushing the troubadour’s curls from his face. It wasn’t a stranger.

Dandelion fell asleep before Geralt could tell him about the monsters, and he leaned back, letting the troubadour use him as a pillow. He was still pale, still underweight, but a bit of color had returned to his face at last. Geralt shifted him closer, leaning back and allowing himself to drift off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke to Dandelion nuzzling into his neck, no doubt enjoying the Witcher’s scent glands, mumbling his name sleepily. “You never gave me the wine, you know, Geralt.”

“You’re not having wine for breakfast.”

“Is it breakfast time? It looks more like lunchtime by the sun. Besides, any time is a good time for wine.”

“You’re not having wine.”

The bard let out a soft wine. “Horrible, cruel old man,” he grumbled. But he didn’t move from Geralt’s lap. The Witcher rubbed his back gently, sighing and trying not to focus on how Dandelion had started lapping his tongue against his neck.

Finally, he asked, “Are you aware-”

“Yes.” But he didn’t stop, the licking turning instead to breathy kisses.

If he stretched, Geralt could just reach the straps of his bag, so he did, pulling it onto the bed and taking out the dried foods that he carried with him on the Path.

He nibbled at a strip of dried meat as Dandelion’s kisses eventually stopped. Then the poet fumbled for his bag, taking out dried fruit and munching on it. “There,” he said after a few minutes. “I’ve eaten. Are you happy?”

The Witcher gave an amused shake of his head and clucked his tongue, finally grabbing the bottle of wine from beside the bed and pulling out the cork. “Not all of it, now, Dandelion.”

The poet took a swing, leaning his back against Geralt's chest. “Have you seen my pants?” he asked suddenly. “I can’t recall what I’ve done with them.”

“Over that way,” he said, waving his hand across the room, next to the tub. “I saw them last night, but couldn’t manage to get them on you.”

He pulled the wine from Dandelion - ignoring his whines of protest - and set it carefully out of his friend’s reach. “Eat a bit more and have some water.”

“I hate you, Geralt,” said Dandelion, shoving more dried fruit into his mouth.

“You’re full of shit, Dandelion.”

The poet sulked as he sipped the water, but he made no move to get up and try to claim the wine. Geralt closed his eyes and rested, enjoying being in a bed rather than sleeping on the cold ground.

“Dandelion,” he said softly, “I’m going to make an offer, and I’m never going to mention it ever again if you decline.” Geralt swallowed, aware that he was walking on eggshells. “I could mark you. People would-”

“Respect your property more than my own agency?”

“Dandelion-” he began, closing his eyes.

The poet let out a lyrical sigh. “Damn it, Geralt, do you even know what goes into marking someone?”

“I bite you and you bite me.”

The poet waited, raising an eyebrow. “And?” When Geralt remained silent he sighed. “It has to be done during a heat, and- ugh-” he shivered “-you’d knot me after the bite, you do know what that is, don’t you?”

“Yes, Dandelion, I know what that is.” He hadn’t considered the fact that he was capable of it, though.

“The offer is appreciated - truly appreciated - but I’m going to decline. So long as I keep taking the medication, nothing will happen.” The poet looked around. “Speaking of which, where’s my medication?”

Geralt slipped from the bed, returning with Dandelion’s medication and his pants, tossing them both onto the bed. The troubadour pulled on his pants before going in search of his water, pouring in a bit of his medication, and gulping it down with a scowl. “Fuck this tastes like shit.”

“You have experience in eating shit, Dandelion?”

“Fuck you.” He sprawled on his back, glaring at the ceiling. Geralt vaguely wondered how long it would be until the anger wore off and he was back to being agreeable and cuddly.

“How do you feel?”

Dandelion shivered. “It's worse when I don’t sate the heat,” he said. “I feel as though I’ve not eaten in a year, but food turns to ash in my mouth.” His face turned red, either from embarrassment or anger. “Excepting, of course, what you fed me last night. And the wine.”

Geralt sat beside him. “Shall I bring more? I’ll feed you again if you’d like.”

Dandelion shook his head. “No, I don’t want more food at the moment, but I will take more of that wine, thank you very much.”

He passed the wine to Dandelion with a sigh, and the bard sipped from the bottle, closing his eyes and sighing contentedly. Then Dandelion suddenly sat up, put the bottle aside, and shoved Geralt into the sheets. “I want to rub your back,” he said.

Geralt pushed himself onto his elbows, raising one eyebrow. “Pardon me, bard?” he asked.

“You heard me, I want to rub your back.”

He couldn’t decide if it was Dandelion’s hormones messing with his head, or if it was some kind of apology for everything Geralt had done for him. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Dandelion perched on his thighs, running his hands down Geralt’s shoulders. “But I need to be touched at the moment, and this gives me a great deal more agency, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hmm.”

“Not to mention, my dear Witcher, you’ve more knots than a ship’s rigging.”

Geralt snorted, sprawling out on his stomach and relaxing under Dandelion’s talented fingers. Ordinarily, he would have felt uncomfortable and exposed in such a position, with his back bare and someone sitting on him, but with the troubadour, he feels perfectly content and safe.

“Perhaps,” Dandelion offered. “We should head out tomorrow. I can’t wait to get this city behind me.”

“If you’d prefer,” replied Geralt.

“I would prefer that greatly.”


End file.
